


For Blood and Wine are Red

by WaltzingTheFaePaths



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Starks (ASoIaF), Multi, the one where Sansa looks at Joffrey and is suitably Freaked Out TM, the one where the stark sisters work together to Fuck Shit Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaltzingTheFaePaths/pseuds/WaltzingTheFaePaths
Summary: “When my lord father, your Hand, brought the Direwolves home he instructed us that they were our responsibility.  We were to train them, and feed them, and when needs be, bury them, ourselves. If it please your grace, I beg that you allow me to return my Direwolf’s body to Winterfell, so that I may follow my father’s instructions.”The Stark Way is the Old Way. Beware the She-wolf who does not hide her teeth, for winter IS coming.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 254





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I do this to myself? I’m hopeless. I also freaked out a visiting palaeontologist by bawling my eyes out whilst writing this, so, yay me I guess ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. The idea for this one came from YouTuber Littlefinger from their video The Direwolves. 

* * *

_ Yet each man kills the thing he loves _

_ By each let this be heard, _

_ Some do it with a bitter look, _

_ Some with a flattering word, _

_ The coward does it with a kiss, _

_ The brave man with a sword! _

* * *

“He doesn’t mean Lady, does he?” She starts to shake from head to toe. “No, not Lady, Lady didn’t  _ bite _ anyone, she’s  _ good _ !”

“Lady wasn’t there!” Arya barked out, more wolf than girl and this time Sansa is thankful for it. “You leave her alone!”

She turns to her father then, begging, “Stop them, don’t let them do it, please,  _ please, it wasn’t Lady! _ ”

She is crying when her lord father calls to the king, “Is this your command? Your Grace?” The King gives Father a look that she has no words for, and leaves with his Kingsguard.

“Where is the beast?” The Queen queries.

“Chained up, outside, your grace.”

With a smile that could almost be pleasant, the Queen turns to the Kings Justice. “Ser Ilyn, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“No,” Father interrupts. “Jory – take the girls to their rooms. If it must be done, I’ll do it myself.”

“Is this some trick?”

“The wolf is of the North. She deserves better than a butcher.”

It is all she can do to hold in her sobs, but she finds the strength to gasp out, “Father!”, and when he stops and half-turns to look at her, she says, “Let me say goodbye. Please.”

Arya has a tight grip on Sansa’s arm, and she uses this to centre herself. Her wild sister had known what was coming for Nymeria – if only they had both thought of Lady, this wouldn’t be happening. Jory has a hold of each of them, a steady grip on her left shoulder that she has known all her life. It tightens when they are outside, for the Hound and his massive destrier are walking past them with the butcher’s boy slung over the saddle like a bloodied bag of potatoes. Arya makes a pained, high-pitched noise in the back of her throat, and now it is Sansa holding onto her.

“He ran,” The Hound answers their father’s query. “But not very fast.”

Both daughters of Winterfell are crying when they reach where Lady has been chained, holding each other’s hands like they had when they were small, smaller even than Rickon is now. They both fall to their knees by the Direwolf, wrapping Lady in a hug tight enough to muffle their sobs. It is Father’s hands on their shoulders now, Jory hanging back to give them all privacy. When he says,  _ it’s time _ , Arya pulls back first.

“Do you have to? The King never gave the order!”

“But the Queen did, sweetling. I must.”

“The one that passes the sentence should swing the sword, that’s what you always tell the boys!”

“They do things differently in the South.” Father says slowly, taking Arya’s chin in hand to make her listen. Sansa is staring into Lady’s eyes, committing everything she can to memory. “At least this way, I can make sure that Lady will be returned to Winterfell, and not skinned for the Queen’s chambers.” The last is breathed, so quietly that Sansa almost doesn’t hear it.

She hates this. This was supposed to be such a grand adventure, this was supposed to be a wonderful start to the rest of her life, and now she feels as though half of her soul is about to be torn away from her.

“If they die,” Sansa whispers, voice choked by tears. “Then you shall bury them yourselves.”

Tears stream down Sansa’s face, and she can’t do anything to stop them; Lady licks at her cheeks, whining in concern. “Give me your dagger, Father. And tomorrow, please, might I petition the King to take Lady home?” Her voice breaks, but she keeps her back straight and her eyes steady, even if they are too blurred to really see clearly.

“No, Sansa, you can’t –!”

“She’s mine,” Sansa hopes the Gods forgive her for interrupting her lord father, but she needs to stay steady. “She’s my responsibility. I am a Stark, and we keep the Old Way.”

Father cups her cheek, and gives her a watery smile back. “Aye, sweetling. You are the blood of Winterfell.”

He hands her his dagger hilt first, and Sansa twists the handle round and round her palm to try and know the sensation of it. She must remember everything that happens here this night, for she is a Stark, and they do not turn their faces. She shuffles closer to Lady to give her one last hug, and whispers in the wolf’s ear her love and that she’s sorry. She needs to look Lady in the eye; she owes her that much. Father wraps his hand around hers, repositions the dagger and together they move the blade to Lady’s throat. Sansa swipes at her tears to clear her eyes, and then they jerk the blade together. Lady’s blood flows thick and hot over her hand, stains her dress as the Direwolf gives an aborted yelp and collapses against her mistress.

Sansa feels like a monster.

She bends over to sob into her wolf’s coat once again, feeling Father and Arya and Jory at her back. She hates this. She wants to go home – she’s starting to think that they should never have left.

In the far distance, a lone wolf howls in agony.

* * *

“I would beg an audience with your grace,” She says in the early hours the next morning, face and hands scrubbed clean and a new gown in place. Arya had helped her in the night, had helped her wash and clean Lady too, and carry the body back to Sansa’s room where the sisters had shared a bed as they hadn’t in many years. Arya had even assisted Septa in arranging Sansa’s hair in a fashion that almost resembles Mother’s, taking her usual twins braids back and adding another at each temple, twisting all four into a bun high on the back of her head in a Northern adaptation of the Southern courts. She had been the one to steal cosmetics from one of the ladies who had travelled with the court, so that they could hide Sansa’s puffy eyes and palid cheeks.

Her curtsy is immaculate, her gown a pale blue that compliments her features and her Northern cloak thick around her shoulders like her own private armour. She still has Father’s dagger, and she had Arya steal its sheath so that they could secretly sew it into the lining of her cloak, for bravery. She needs the physical reminder: she is a Stark, and she is of the North.

“Yes, girl, what is it?” The King demands, cheeks full of bread and sausage, and eyes watching the serving maids with a different type of hunger.

“When my lord father, your Hand, brought the Direwolves home he instructed us that they were our responsibility. We were to train them, and feed them, and when needs be, bury them, ourselves. If it please your grace, I beg that you allow me to return my Direwolf’s body to Winterfell, so that I may follow my father’s instructions.”

“Have some manservant do it, girl.” The King says dismissively, waving a fat hand.

“We are Starks, your grace,” Sansa says politely, firmly, in a tone she has heard Mother use to remind unruly bannermen of their manners. “We keep the Old Way. She is my responsibility. How can I be a good Queen, let alone a decent lady, if I do not do my duty?”

King Robert snorts at her then, looking her squarely in the eyes. “Oh, you’re Ned and Cat’s daughter, alright! Fine then, girl. Do as you please – but make sure you come back South once you’re done, mind! You can travel with the Imp, if he hasn’t stumbled off the edge of the Wall.”

“Yes, your grace. Thank you, your grace,” She curtsies again, and returns to her Father and sister to share the news.

“I’ll send you home with Septa Mordane and Jory in a cart,” Father tells her lowly, holding her hand.

“No,” She whispers back. “Arya needs Septa more than I do. Jory will keep me safe.”

“Let me go too,” Arya begs. “I’ll look after Sansa! I promise, we won’t fight, and I’ll even behave like a proper lady is supposed to!”

Father and Sansa both give Arya a  _ look _ . 

“That is a kind offer,” Father says diplomatically. “But I would rather have you here with me. Someone will need to be the lady of our household until Sansa comes back, after all.”

“No,” Arya says sharply, shaking her head. “You won’t need a lady on the road. But Sansa needs me now. And we can give Mother and the boys hugs from you too, promise!”

Father sighs, and asks, “The both of you, Septa, and Jory. And you promise not to fight?”

“We promise!” Both girls say together, earnest.

“Take only what you need, then. It may yet be safer for you to take a ship from White Harbour to Kings Landing, but I will speak with Jory now, and then if you speak with your mother when you return, we should find the safest route for both of you.”

“Thank you, Father,” they both smile and curtsy, and Arya is even quiet and more-or-less polite for the rest of the meal.

She probably would have stayed quiet for the rest of the  _ day _ , if Prince Joffrey hadn’t chosen to come up to them at the end of the meal.

“My prince,” Sansa demurs, nudging Arya with her elbow so that her sister knows to copy her. Arya only gives a stony-faced nod of her head and a flat  _ my prince _ . Sansa despairs for her sister’s manners, but this is still a win compared to what Sansa is used to from her.

“My lady…” Joffrey returns. Sansa tries to appreciate his beauty, but all she can see is wormy lips and the cruel smirk of yesterday. All she feels is numb. “I hear that you are to leave us, already?”

“Only briefly, my prince,” She answers, keeping her voice soft to try and hide the rasp from a night spent crying into her pillows. “I have a responsibility in Winterfell, and then I shall be by your side once more.”

A look flashes through the prince’s eyes, and she tries desperately not to assign a name to it. It is not beautiful. It is not kind. It does not befit a prince from the songs she loves so much. When he speaks, his voice is not beautiful either, and his words sound as though they have been read to him.

“Then for your protection in your journey, I pledge my Hound to you, to bring you back to my side even faster, my lady.”

“I thank you for your kindness, my prince,” she replies politely. “I am sure Ser Clegane will have me back to you in no time.”

Joffrey gives an … unkind, unkingly nod of his head, and flounced –  _ flounced! _ – away. Sansa swallows hard and pushes her plate to her sister. She isn’t hungry anymore. She just wants to go home.

* * *

They travel back North all the rest of the day, Septa and Arya and Sansa at the fore of the cart, Lady and the butcher’s boy’s bodies in the back, and Jory and the Hound astride their horses and riding ahead of them. Arya has kept surprisingly quiet the whole trip, not even begging stories off of the menfolk, and it touches Sansa’s heart to see just how hard her little sister is trying. This is what motivates her to take Jory quietly aside in the evening, and ask him to train her sister in swordcraft. If she herself were in better spirits, perhaps she would have laughed at the shocked look her request gets her.

“Are you sure, Sansa?” Jory asks her.

“I’m sure. I’ll distract Septa and Ser Clegane. See if you can’t bring some meat back though, maybe?”

“Aye,” Jory says, shaking his head and smiling at her fondly. “We’ll see how we go then, little Arya Underfoot and I.”

She thanks him and begins her distraction. “Ser Clegane, they say you are one of the greatest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. Might you share a story with us, please?”

The scarred man eyes her warily even as Septa is scolding her for being unladylike. The Hound interrupts though, with a growled  _ I am no ser, girl _ .

“My apologies, my lord.” Sansa ducks her head, worried suddenly. There is anger in those sharp grey eyes, and it is the anger that she finds ugly and terrifying, not his scars. “I should not have assumed so.”

“I’m not a  _ lord _ either,” Clegane growls. “My grandfather was a kennelmaster. I’m just Joffrey’s sworn shield.”

“Then… how would you have me address you, s – m –.” It would be impolite to huff or growl herself, but that is almost what she feels like doing.

“Most everyone calls me Dog, or Hound,” the big man smiles at her – a fake smile, a canine’s bared teeth.

“And if I called you Dog,” Sansa asks him, “would you then call me Wolf? I think not, ser-not-a-ser!”

“Sansa!” Sept snaps then. “A lady does not speak so!”

Sansa tries not to squirm or blush in embarrassment. “Forgive me, my lord. I am not myself – if it pleases you, might you share a story with us?”

Those eyes are assessing both her and Septa now, Sansa sees when she peeks through her lashes. There is an odd twist to his mutilated mouth that she is unsure of, but she puts it from her mind for later, sits back and listens to the not-a-ser tell of when he had been sworn shield to the Queen, and how a ball in the first year of King Robert’s reign had gone spectacularly disastrous.

They are all of them so wrapped up in the tale that they almost miss Arya and Jory’s return.

“Arya! Where on earth have you been?” Septa demands. 

“I was helping Jory catch rabbits,” Arya grumbles. “I thought Sansa and I could make Bran something from the hide, as a surprise for when he wakes up.”

Sansa very carefully ignores the state that her little sister is in – too many sweat stains and not enough leaves in her hair – and hopes that if she doesn’t comment, the adults won’t either. “That is an excellent idea, Arya! What shall we make him?”

Arya simply shrugs, saying that she would catch and skin the beasts, and Sansa could do the stitching. Sansa feels that this is a more productive use of their abilities than trying to get Arya to be a lady all of the time, and hopes that Septa will agree.

(She does not. The argument is spectacular, even toned down for Clegane’s sake and with Arya already trying her best to behave. Sansa is impressed all over again.

Clegane takes a moment to whisper to her as an aside,  _ “Her  _ I’d address as Wolf, that’s for sure.  _ You _ might be more a little bird than anything, chirping your courtesies so. Like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, repeating all the pretty words they taught you to recite. This septa  _ trained  _ you well. _ ” _

She freezes with indignation, and spends the rest of the evening ignoring him coldly. She was just as much a Stark as her sister, he would see.)

In the end, the only one who doesn’t go to bed angry is Jory, really, and yet when they all awaken and start back to Winterfell in the early hours of the morn it is both Jory and Clegane who are in chipper moods. Septa is perhaps the only female who doesn’t resent them for this.

Sansa is seated between her sister and their Septa, and try as she might to get a story to brighten the day, Jory is the only one who indulges her. The Hound seems more interested in a verbal spar, and whilst Sansa appreciates that he is treating her as a woman instead of a child, she also feels that it is too familiar after all his talk of not-a-lord and not-a-ser.

* * *

It had taken the Royal Company a month and a half to get from Winterfell to the Crossroads Inn. It takes their little cart just over twelve days. 

Twelve days of tension between Arya and Septa, with Sansa desperately trying to distract the older woman and Hound both, so that neither would notice Arya’s secret sword lessons. Sansa is fairly certain that she is successful with Septa Mordane, but is only half-sure when it came to Sandor Clegane. He called her sister  _ wolf girl  _ and asked Sansa to tell stories of their family’s wolfblood on the regular, a smile twitching away in the burned corner of his mouth. He called her  _ little bird _ and smirked, too. She had caught him feeding bread crumbs to a mourning dove on the tenth day, when they were camped at Moat Cailin, and he had pointed out that the pretty creature still had claws. She had appreciated it, had given him a true smile for it and accepted it for the truce it was.

When finally they reach Winterfell, they are not met by Mother.

The sisters had half-hoped to see her first, but had known that if Bran was still asleep, then Mother was surely still at his side. It was Robb who greeted them, clearly pulled out of some meeting or another, ink stains on his fingers and a smear over his chin where he must have rubbed it absentmindedly. Theon was on his heels, and both youths were surprised when Sansa and Arya both tackled them in hugs.

The girls shook, and no doubt Robb and Theon could tell, but all were aware of the image that they had to present.

“Where’s Father?” Robb demanded, eyes worried and face set in a copy of Father’s Lord’s Face.

“With the Royal company, still,” Sansa answered. “We had to come back, and Sandor Clegane was kind enough to escort us.” He still insists that he is neither  _ ser _ nor  _ lord _ , and she still insists against calling him  _ Hound _ , so this is their compromise.

“What brings you back?” Theon asked, voice much quieter than before.

Sansa draws herself upright, holds herself steady and keeps her face blank, breaths, “ _ ‘When they die, you will bury them yourselves.’ _ ”

Robb’s face twists in an instant, and Grey Wind at his feet whines. The wolfpup trots to the cart, sniffs around it and throws his head back and  _ howls _ . Answering calls come from within the castle ⎼ Shaggydog, and Bran’s wolf. Tears are clawing their way up Sansa’s throat, and she  _ refuses  _ to show this, this weakness in her family home.

_ I am a Stark, and my strength comes from Winterfell! _

“Robb, if accommodation could be made for our escort, I would like to move to the lichyard. Please.”

Her brother nods, moves towards the cart himself, clapping Jory on the shoulder before giving the Hound a nod, and quietly expressing his thanks for getting Sansa and Arya home safely, and then gathering the blanket-wrapped Lady. With a hand on each elbow, Theon steps between the sisters and guides them.

“Theon?” Sansa whispers, holding on to her composure by mere threads. “Would you be able to find a shovel for me, please?”

He is not her brother by blood, but that has never mattered before. It matters not now, when Theon takes one look at her face and knows what she needs. He gives her a nod, squeezes her elbow and moves to the stables at a quick pace. Robb speaks with him quietly, before moving to catch up with the girls, Grey Wind at his heels.

“How did this happen?” Their big brother asks Sansa, before seeing her face. He turns to Arya, and her answering whisper is ragged.

“It was my fault. I was practicing sword fighting with the butcher’s boy, Mycah. Joffrey found us, and was cutting Mycah’s face, so I hit him with my stick. He was going to cut me, too, but Nymeria bit him. I chased her away, so she wouldn’t be caught, but we didn’t think about Lady. The Queen said that she had to die in Nymeria’s place.”

“The Queen killed her?” Robb exclaimed. They had made it to the lichyard, now, and Robb led them to the back, where there were trees that could act as a marker for Lady’s grave.

“I did. She was mine, and it was my responsibility,” Sansa chokes out, dragging in a deep breath. “What’s taking Theon so long?”

Twin yips behind them are the only warning the get before Shaggy and Bran’s wolf barrel into the back of their legs, the pups jumping up and licking both girls’ faces. When they can push the pups away and look behind them, it is to see Rickon flinging himself into their laps. Theon follows him, one hand holding the promised shovel, and the other helping to hold Bran piggyback. Both girls cry out in shock, and Sansa loses her battle against the tears. Their little brother is  _ awake _ and  _ alive _ !

Robb takes Bran from Theon’s back and crouches on the ground, the four Starks collapsing into a group hug. Sansa is not the only one crying, she is happy to note.

“Theon says that Lady  _ died _ !” Rickon shouts in their ears.

“Who killed her?” Bran demands, fists shaking.

“ _ Me! _ ” Sansa sobbs. She has an arm each around Bran and Rickon’s shoulders, her nose buried in baby Rickon’s hair. Arya is pressed up tightly against her side and Robb is behind them both, holding them steady, holding them  _ together. _

Theon is standing awkwardly apart from everyone, but Sansa looks up at him, holds out one hand imperiously, and gives a watery smile when he takes her hand and squeezes.

_ The lone wolf dies _ , she thinks wildly,  _ but the  _ pack  _ survives. _

* * *

Their tears are spent, Lady is buried, and the Starks and Theon have hidden themselves away in the Crypts with a flagon of wine that Theon had thought to snatch from the kitchens when he went to get fruit tarts for the children to all share together.

“To Lady,” Theon toasted, giving the skin to Sansa for the first sip.

“I don’t want to touch wine ever again,” She says, voice thick still with the tears she had shed in the lichyard.

The older boys exchange too-quick looks, before Robb quietly prods, “Whyever not? Father only ever let’s you have one cup at feasts.”

“Prince Joffrey and I had been sharing a skin, when it happened. We had gone for a walk, and he told me that I could drink as much as I wanted, as his betrothed.”

Another look was exchanged, and this time it was Theon who spoke.

“Arya, you weren’t close to the camp when you were practicing, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t that stupid! We were a ways away, down the river where noone could see.”

“And, Sansa, the Prince was giving you lots of wine, where noone could see?” There was a hard note in Theon’s voice, something that she hadn’t ever heard before. There is rage writ clear on Robb’s face, though, and Sansa feels like she is missing something major.

“Why are you mad?” She asks them both, fear licking up her spine.

“It could be innocent enough,” Robb says diplomatically, though his mouth is still twisted down, anger hot in his eyes. 

Theon interrupts. “But if a man is trying to get a woman drunk where none may see, usually it’s because he wants to take advantage of her virtue.”

Sansa feels the blood drain from her face, feels as though she is disconnected from the rest of her body as she stares at her big brothers.

This is  _ nothing _ like the songs, and she does  _ not  _ like it.

“We are betrothed,” She whispers. “Why wouldn’t he wait until we are wed?”

“Sometimes,” Theon says carefully, eyes faraway like they sometimes are when he is thinking of Pyke, “Men don’t want to wait. And sometimes, when they’re in a powerful position, they can get away with… certain things, and they think that they can always get away with those things.”

The Crypts are quiet, the little boys wide-eyed and Arya as furious as Robb.

Sansa takes a series of deep breaths, eyes closed, before standing abruptly. She stalks to Grandfather and Uncle Brandon’s tombs, taking their iron swords and thrusting them, hiltfirst, at Robb and Arya.

Baring her teeth, Sansa rounds on Theon, her father’s dagger to hand, and  _ snarls _ , “Teach us.”

“Mother won’t - ” Bran begins.

“Mother isn’t here, is she?” Sansa snaps back. “If Mother was here, Theon would have brought her when he brought you little boys, but he didn’t! Where is she?”

“She and Ser Rodrik went South to tell Father about the Tower,” Rickon piped.

“Mother thinks that it was the Lannisters who pushed me, and made me fall,” Bran added. “And sent the assassin after me.”

“ _ Assassin?! _ ” Arya cried. She, too, launches to her feet, grip white-knuckled on Uncle Brandon’s blade.

“ _ Teach us, _ ” Sansa snarls again, whirling back on the older boys. “We shall stay until Lord Tyrion returns from the Wall, and then sail from White Harbour to Kings Landing. So by the time he arrives, we will know how to defend ourselves!”

They are quiet, shocked, before Theon pulls a chuckle from gods-know-where, and says, “There’s a wolf in you after all,  _ Lady Sansa _ .” He takes back the wineskin, toasts her with it, says,  _ to the future Queen of Westeros! _ And from there, he shows her the correct stance for a knife fight. Robb gets his ankles rapped by Arya’s blade when he overcorrects her for her forms, and Bran and Rickon giggle. Though they do not know it yet, this is the happiest their family will be for … quite some time.


	2. 2. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filler Chapter - this one lays the groundwork, folks. Who can guess the foreshadowing that's going on here, I wonder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken a good deal of artistic license with timing in this one – #sorrynotsorry canon ¯\\_ (ツ)_/¯

* * *

_Some kill their love when they are young,_

_And some when they are old;_

_Some strangle with the hands of Lust,_

_Some with the hands of Gold;_

_The kindest use a knife because_

_The dead so soon grow cold_

* * *

The Wolf known as Wild Sister to the pack and _Nymeria_ to the men was home. She had followed her girl, careful so that none would see-scent-hear her, so that she could rejoin the pack even if her girl didn’t want her anymore. The angry older female that was always with her girl and Little Sister’s girl didn’t notice her, and neither did the man that had travelled south from the man-rock-den with them. But the new man, the one who was burnt and leaky, he knew she was there. She knew that he knew because he kept sneaking away from the night-den the men made each evening to leave out a little bit of food for her. She never ate it when he was there, but he always checked in the morning before their little band left. She maybe should have waited until the band left before eating the food, but she was hungry.

It didn’t matter now, though. She had followed her girl home, and the Black Brother had helped her sneak into the man-rock-den, and then down into the cave that was beneath the den, where the bones of her girl’s grandsires rested. There was her girl, and the Little Sister’s, and Black Brother’s boy and Older Brother’s and Brindled Brother’s. There was the littermate-who-wasn’t, whose blood smelt like the white grains the men used on their feeds that tingled on a wolf’s tongue when licked up, like the strange water that leaked from human eyes when they were sad.

The human pups were all cuddled together, just as the Wild Sister and her littermates had slept before they each drew to their own human. After sniffing at each of her littermates, the Wild Sister shuffled over to her girl and Little Sister’s, and cuddled up between them herself. It had been a long time since they were home, and here she was going to stay.

* * *

Robb was the first to awaken the next morning. He was the acting Lord of Winterfell with both of his parents away, and even though he was so, _so_ glad to have his sisters home again, he had duties her would need to attend. Each sibling was given a kiss to the forehead, Theon given a jab to the ribs, and each pup a scratch behind the ears before Robb realised that there was something _off_.

One-two-three-four-five humans. Two sisters, two brothers, one Theon.

One-two-three-four direwolves. Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggy. One-two-three-four. Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggy, and _Nymeria_.

“Theon,” he hisses.

“What?”

“How many wolves do you count?”

“ _What?_ Three, fuck ya. Grey, Shaggy, Summer – shit.”

“Yeah.”

“ _How?!_ ”

“She’s Arya’s, I think that’s all the explanation we need, really.”

“Fuck.” Theon swipes a hand down his face, draws in a breath, and lets it out on a shaky exhale. “Do we try to hide her? Sansa won’t be happy, and Arya won’t be happy that she’ll have to leave her behind again.”

“She’s followed them all the way back from the Riverlands, Theon, we can’t separate them again!”

“Well she can’t bloody well go back to Kings Landing, can she?” He snapped back. “The Queen was bloodthirsty enough that she took Lady despite her innocence. If Nymeria goes with the girls she’ll die too!”

“Arya won’t want to hide her. Neither will Rickon.”

Theon swallowed, nodded, and gave Robb a nudge with his elbow. “I’ll stay with the kids and talk them through it, then. You go be Lord of the Castle.”

Robb smiled at him, clapped his shoulder, and left. Theon turned to survey the children and wolves behind him, and saw four little bodies stiffen in feigned sleep, Rickon giving a very convincing snore. The direwolves looked up at him with the biggest puppy eyes he had ever seen. Theon snorted at the lot of them.

“Well? How much of that did you hear?”

Another moment of silence, and then the Starks all slowly opened their eyes and eased themselves up onto their elbows or into sitting positions.

“Since you started counting the pups,” Arya says lowly. Her grey eyes are shadowed, her head bowed, and her bottom lip trembled. “You’re right, Theon. She can’t come with me. She’ll _die_.”

“It’s better if she stays with her pack,” Sansa soothes, scratching the lone she-wolf behind her ears.

“We’ll look after her, won’t we, Theon?” Rickon asks him quickly.

“Aye, we will. If Septa or Clegane ask, though, she’s a regular wolfpup I found in the woods for myself. Whilst they’re here, and any letters we send to the capital, we’ll call her, uh, Salty. Alright?”

“That’s a stupid name,” Arya grumbles, but her lips are twitching with humour instead of tears, so Theon will call it a win.

“It’s a great name – you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.” He says as snootily as he can, and is rewarded with laughter from all four of the little Starks.

“Can we break our fast now?” Rickon wines. “Shaggy and me are hungry!”

“Shaggy _and I_ ,” Sansa corrects automatically.

“I’ll carry you this time, Bran!” says Arya overtop of her sister, crouching and putting her back to Bran. Sansa and Rickon help to get him up on her back, and then again to help Arya to her feet.

Theon will almost certainly have to swap out with her once they reach the top of the stairs, if not half-way up, but they’re all so cute when they’re this earnest that he’s loath to interrupt. Absently, he wonders if his brothers had ever done this for him back in the Iron Islands ( _definitely not_ ), or perhaps even his sister ( _maybe once?_ ).

In a fit of stubbornness and a created game to cheer Bran up even more, Arya manages to carry Bran up all the Crypt stairs, across the courtyard, and into the main keep. She is bent over and staggering by the time they reach the dinning hall, but refuses to hand Bran over to Theon. This is the most Theon has seen Bran smile since he woke up, and the first that he has seen the now-dour boy _laugh_ , so he hasn’t tried very hard to be convincing. They’re all of them a giggly mess by the time they reach the top table where Robb is talking with the new steward, Larra Poole.

Robb’s Lord Face cracks when he takes in their giggly group, and he gives them the biggest smile Theon has seen from him in – well, ever, he supposes. Grey Wind yips from Robb’s side, and the three pups dancing about their feet yip back, tumbling over each other to get to the table first.

“Arya, maybe you should let Theon take Bran?” Robb says.

“Nope! He’s my lord, and I’m his sworn shield, the Knight of the Heart Tree!” Arya gasps out, grinning brightly. Staggering as though she is well into her cups, Arya begins the now-long process of climbing the stairs to Bran’s seat on Robb’s right.

Larra hides a laugh behind her hand, and bobs her head to the little Starks. “My lords, my ladies, good morning! My ladies, if you please, how was my husband when last you saw him?”

“Vayon was well,” Sansa answers, pulling out Bran’s seat and helping him off of Arya’s back. Rickon tugs out Arya’s seat for her, where she collapses with a final giggle. “The company should be nearly level with Harrenhal by now, depending on how long the King spent at Castle Darry. Would you like me to have him write you a letter when we see him next?”

Larra smiled at them warmly. “I would love it if you could, my lady, but there is no great need so long as I know he is well. Lord Robb, the tax collection from this area …”

Urgh, numbers. Theon tuned back out again, and started helping the children with their meals. They had a long day of training ahead of them, after all.

* * *

“Ser Clegane!” Robb called across the training yard, Grey Wind and Ny– _Salty_ at his heels. “A moment, if you please.”

“I’m no ser,” the Westerman growled, sheathing his tourney sword and stepping away from Jory. “Your sisters either use my name or call me Hound; I care not which you use.”

Robb nods, dropping a hand between Grey Wind’s ears for a scratch. “Very well. I wanted to thank you for your escorting of my sisters. Even up here, we have heard tales of your prowess in battle, Clegane.”

A nod, before something like a nightmare’s smirk crosses the big man’s face. “The little one’s wolf was following us, then?”

“Oh, you are mistaken,” Robb says easily enough, dropping his other hand to the shewolf’s head. “This is Salty, she’s Theon’s. Nymeria is lost in the Riverlands.”

Clegane’s eyes might be the same grey as Father’s and Jon’s and Arya’s, but it full of so much anger and hatred that it may as well be another colour, they are so different.

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” he growled. “That wolf followed us back. The others mightn’t have noticed, but I did.” He spat on the ground, leading both Grey and Salty to growl warningly. “Keeping them up here is the smartest thing you could do, of course. The Little Bird and the She-wolf should have listened, when they were told to leave them behind the first time.”

Robb’s hands remove themselves from the wolves’ ruffs, letting the two crouch down and their growls grow louder. “Have care how you speak of my sisters, _ser_ ,” Robb growled, too. “and remember your station.”

“Oh, aye. The grandson of a kennelmaster has no business with daughters of a Warden, except to keep them alive. Listen well, boy – Kings Landing is a cesspit of liars and vipers. They’ll be glad of me and my ugly truths when they reach the capitol.”

“It’s your masters who are dragging my family South!” Robb snapped at him. “It was the Lannisters who pushed Bran from that tower, and the Lannisters who ordered that boy’s death, and the death of my sister’s Direwolf!”

A baring of teeth from a blackened face; “And it was the Lannisters who rose my family to nobility. No doubt, it will be the Lannisters who will lower us again, if my damned brother doesn’t do it first.”

“My Lords,” Both start apart at the sound of Sansa’s voice. Her blue eyes are hard as Ice. “If I might interrupt – Robb, you are wanted in Father’s solar, there’s a raven for you from the Rills. Sandor Clegane, since you have finished here, might you walk with me a turn in the Godswood? It seems that I am misinformed regarding my betrothed’s holdings. Would you be so kind as to educate me?”

Sheepishly, the two men back away from each other. Robb gave her a kiss on the cheek, called to Grey Wind and made for the Keep. Salty stayed at Sansa’s heels, and she stared at Sandor until he cleared his throat and offered his arm. Dipping an elegant curtsy, Sansa placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and steered him around.

“This way, if you please, _my lord_.”

“I’m not a –!”

“I don’t care,” Sansa snapped overtop of him. “My wolf is dead by my hand, my brother is crippled at the hands of my future godsfamily, and has already suffered _assassinations attempts_. Now, pray tell me about Kings Landing, _if you please_.”

* * *

_Dear Jon,_

_Arya and I have briefly returned to Winterfell, and await Lord Tyrion’s return before we shall sail from White Harbour to Kings Landing. There was an incident on the Trident which lead to Lady’s death; I’ve buried her in the lichyard. Nymeria will remain in Winterfell with Theon, though for her own safety she has been renamed ‘Salty’, for the time being._

_Do you perhaps have any tips or tricks with the sword that you might recommend to Arya? She is trying to learn in secret, and I am doing what I can to prevent others from finding out. Septa doesn’t know, but I think that Joffrey’s Shield, Sandor Clegane, is aware of what we are doing, and is pretending not to. He was gracious enough to escort us home, along with Jory, and the both will travel by ship with us, as well._

_If either yourself or Uncle Benjen have any tips on how best to handle or hide a knife, I would appreciate it._

_All of my love to you both,_

_Your sister,_

_Sansa Stark_

_Post Script,_

_Rickon wants you to know that he has lost the first of his milkteeth and shall soon be a man grown. He and Shaggy will come to visit you once they’re big enough._

* * *

_Dear Jon,_

_I’ve kept Needle hidden, and have been trying to practice swords with my friends. Mycah and me were practicing on the Trident when Joffrey and Sansa came up, and Joffrey started hurting Mycah, so I smacked him, and when he went to cut me down Nymeria bit him really badly. We hid in the forest for days, and Jory helped me scare her away – we threw rocks at her, and I felt so terrible, I hit her twice! – but she followed Sansa and me back to Winterfell. The queen ordered Lady to die in Nymeria’s place, but Father wouldn’t let Ser Ilyn do it, so Sansa said_ she’d _do it, because Lady was her direwolf. Us and Septa and Jory and the stupid Hound (he killed Mycah!) brought Lady back to Winterfell, and Sansa buried her herself. Nymeria followed us, so Theon is going to look after her for me. If Septa asks, she’s a regular wolf that he found in the woods and took a liking to, and her new name is_ Salty _. Urgh!_

_Robb and Jory have been training me in secret. It’s easy now, because Mother has gone south to tell Father that it was the Lannisters that pushed Bran out of the tower – the queen again – and no one else except for Septa will stop me if they find out. The training was even Sansa’s idea! Theon and Robb think that Joffrey was going to rape her on the Trident, so now she’s trying to learn knife fighting, since she still has Father’s dagger from when she had to kill Lady. She’s sewn it into her cloak, but I think she wants to hide it somewhere else, for when she can’t wear the cloak, like in the South. Do you have any ideas?_

_Have you climbed the Wall yet? Have you gone Beyond yet? Do you like the Wall? Have you made any friends? Do you miss me – I miss you lots and lots! Sansa’s alright now that she’s helping me with swords, but she’s still not you._

_Love, Arya_

* * *

_Dear Robb,_

_Tyrion Lannister left the Wall for Winterfell yesterday, and I only received the girls’ letters this morning._

_Brother, what the_ fuck _. Why do you think that Joffrey was going to_ rape Sansa _? Is she alright? She and Arya both mentioned that she’s encouraging Arya’s sword training, and that she has taken up knives herself. My advice to both of them remains the same –_ stick them with the pointy end _– but for genuine stances and grips, I will leave to yours and Jory’s capable hands. Maybe one day I can travel to collect more Brothers, as Yoren is now, and I can train with them in person. I am so sorry to hear about Lady – if I ever go ranging, I will be sure to look for another pup, just for her, should she wish it._

_Uncle Benjen has just gone Beyond the Wall, and I am not permitted to do so myself until I have sworn my vows to the Nights Watch, and until I am placed amongst the Rangers. As it stands, I am trying to assist in the training yard here, as Ser Alliser Thorn’s methods consist entirely of screaming at the recruits to hit each other harder. To answer Arya’s questions, I’d like to think that I’ve made friends here, but I know I’ve made just as many enemies for who and what I am (don’t tell the girls this, though, I don’t want them to worry). I have looked over the top of the Wall with Uncle Benjen, and I have never seen so far before. I would love to have been able to share it with Bran and Arya – maybe when they’re older?_

_I’m glad to hear that Bran is awake, and am sorry about his legs. Is he alright? I know how much it must hurt him, to no longer be able to climb. I hope that you and Rickon have been able to cheer him up, though I know you must be busy. Please give them both hugs for me, and tell Rickon that he can have whatever of my things remain, as he will soon be a man grown; I’m sure he’d like that! Please tell Arya that I do miss everyone as well, and look forward to when we can all visit each other._

_All of my love,_

_Jon Snow_

* * *

They have cobbled together a cart for Bran to sit on, using Summer, Shaggydog and ~~Nymeria~~ Salty to draw it from place to place. Arya or Sansa carry him up and down the stairs whilst the other helps Rickon carry the cart. Sansa works harder at distracting Septa Mordane, so that Arya can practice the bow with the two little boys – Bran can still use his arms. Sansa spins stories for her little brothers, of how Bran can still be a knight, how he will be able to ride Summer into battle when the wolves are fully grown and will one day sweep a fair maiden off her feet with his daring and chivalry.

Their training sessions are always very early in the morning, down in the Crypts where none but the Starks go. Robb trains Rickon and Arya together, as they both of them favour their left hand, and it is easier for him to watch them fight each other and correct their grips than to try and fight either of them himself. Theon trains Sansa and Bran to both hold and fight with knives, and on how to throw them. Sansa is considerably better at the latter than the former, which drives both boys mad: if she is throwing her weapon aside, then what will she do if she misses, or there are more enemies? Arya’s ‘sage’ advice had been to collect more weapons, but there are only so many places one can hide weapons upon one’s person if one wishes to keep them _hidden_.

They are together for nearly a week before Lord Tyrion finally arrives, with two men-at-arms and a Black Brother. Bran and Rickon had been begging stories from Old Nan, whilst Arya and Sansa had been helping Robb order the finances with Septa and Larra. When the guards announce who is at the gates, Robb quickly gathers his siblings into the Great Hall, himself in the Lord’s seat with the boys seated to the left, and the girls seated to the right; Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggydog lay in front of the topmost table, and Salty watches from behind the raised platform, nose just visible behind Arya’s skirts. Maester Luwin sits to the left of Rickon, Septa Mordane to the right of Arya, and Theon stands at Robb’s right shoulder. A dozen guardsmen line the room, Sandor Clegane amongst them.

“I must say, I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit.” Lord Tyrion says archly once he and his company are allowed into the Hall.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay,” Robb greets them in his own Lord’s Voice.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch,” the dwarf repeated, “but not me, do I take your meaning, boy?”

“I’m not your boy, Lannister. I’m Lord of Winterfell whilst my Mother and Father are away.”

“If I may, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa interjects, voice soft but still clear to all within the room. “As it pleases my lord, my sister and I wish to travel South with you. There is a ship awaiting us at White Harbour; if the tides are kind, we may even beat the royal party to Kings Landing.”

He hums, looking at her with his strange, mismatched eyes. “You would do well to learn your sister’s courtesies, Robb Stark. It seems that she and your bastard brother have all of your father’s graces.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Bran and Arya gasp together, before both visibly gather themselves again.

Those mismatched eyes latched onto Bran’s face, then. “So it is true, that you live. I could scarce believe it – you Starks are hard to kill!”

Growls kicked up from Grey Wind and Shaggy, at that. Overtop of them, Robb says, “You Lannisters had best remember that.”

Another hum, and then, “Forgive me, my ladies – I thought that you travelled with the royal company.”

Sansa dips her head, courteous behind her Lady’s Armour, whilst Arya tries to school herself in her own Lord’s Face. “We had a personal matter to attend to before we could truly leave the North, my lord. When would it suit you for our company to depart?”

The courtesies seem to surprise the lord of Lannister, and Sansa cannot help but wonder when was the last time that someone had seriously offered him the respect of his station. “I imagine that you would wish to rejoin with your father and betrothed as soon as possible, Lady Sansa. How about we leave upon the morrow?”

Sansa subtly elbows her sister beneath the table, and together they say, _as it pleases my lord_.

“Oh. Ah, thank you, my ladies. Uh hum, do you like to ride, Bran?”

“Yes. Well I mean, I _did_ like to.”

Gently, Maester Luwin says, “The boy has lost the use of his legs, my lord, he cannot ride.”

“With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride,” Tyrion snaps, only for Bran to snap back himself,

“I’m not a _cripple_!”

“Then I am not a dwarf, my father will rejoice to hear it! I have a gift for you.” He moves to step forward, only for the three wolves at the front of the dias to rise with snarls, Shaggy slinking forward with his jaws slavering.

“ _Boys_!” Sansa calls, voice like a whipcrack in the sudden silence that the wolves’ reaction has caused. The three wolves in front of her look guiltily over their shoulders. “Be _have_ , please.”

Grey Wind sinks back down to his belly, Summer huffs and steps forward to delicately take the scroll from Tyrion’s outstretched hand, and Shaggy whines piteously. Sansa eyes the black wolf until he grumbles and sits on his haunches once again, licking his chops. Summer hands the scroll to Bran, who unrolls it and shows the images to Robb.

“Give that scroll to your saddler. He’ll provide the rest.” Tyrion says to Bran, before turning to Robb again. “You must shape the horse to the rider. Start with a yearling, teach it to respond to the reigns and to the boy’s voice.”

“Will I really be able to ride?” Bran asks, voice soft. “Can I alter this, to fit Summer when he’s big enough?”

“You will. You can. On horseback or wolfback, you’ll be as tall as any of them.” 

Excited now, Bran turns to look at Sansa with shining eyes. “It’s like you said, I could be a knight yet!”

“You will have to work very hard, dear brother,” Sansa answers him, giving him the softest smile she can, and holding her tears back. Robb takes the scroll and looks it over, nods to himself and hands the scroll to Theon, who passes it over the boys’ heads to Maester Luwin.

“What is Bran to you?” Robb asked slowly. “Why should you want to help him?”

“Your brother Jon asked it of me. And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.” Tyrion placed a hand over his heart and grinned cheekily.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lord Tyrion,” Arya says stiffly before beginning the speech that Sansa had made her learn upon the news that the dwarf would soon reach their home. “The hospitality of Winterfell is yours. There is bread and salt for you and yours, and rooms have been prepared for all, if it pleases you.”

Rickon took the spiel back up again, the final piece that he had spent all week rehearsing with Robb and Sansa both. “You’ll find no lack of hot water to wash off the dust of the road. I hope that you will all honour us at table tonight.” He kept his own Lord’s Face about him until the spiel was finished, and unfortunately ruined the image with a bright, gap-toothed smile levelled at his eldest siblings, _Did I say it right?_ a piping stage whisper that all could hear as clear as day. Everyone hid their chuckles so as to not insult the six-year-old, and Robb responded very solemnly that Rickon had, indeed, said his piece correctly.

Beaming, Rickon adds, “I’m nearly a man grown now, Robb, I’ll show them where to go! Septa, Shaggy, c’mon!”

Chuckling, the men of the Watch and Lord Tyrion’s party take their leave, and the guardsmen slowly trickle out themselves, until it is only those on the high table left. With a moan, Sansa hides her face in her hands, taking deep breaths that match up to Robb’s.

“Seven _hells_ ,” Arya gasps out, slouching in her seat. Theon takes Rickon’s with a groan of his own.

“She’s right,” Robb says. “That could have gone both far better and far worse.”

“You came on too strong,” Sansa whispered. “You made it obvious that you had no love for him or his House.”

“They pushed Bran out of a window! They tried to kill him twice!” Arya snaps in Robb’s defence.

“And we’re about to travel with him! Live with his House, his family! What will they do to _us_ , Arya, _think_!” Shaking, she whispers again, “If Joffrey was going to do _that_ , if the Queen ordered _that_ , if the Lannisters are responsible for _this_? I don’t want to give them any reason to do anything else, to us or to Father or anyone.”

“Maybe I should go with the girls,” Theon offers. “Keep training them, keep them safe.”

“Father lost his big brother in Kings Landing, I will not be the same!” Sansa snapped.

Everyone is quiet, and Theon is flushed a brilliant scarlet. Arya is the first to recover.

“She’s right, you need to stay and look after Robb and the babies.”

“I’m not a baby, I’m _two years younger than you_!” Bran snapped back.

Arya stuck her tongue out, before saying, “Anyway, it would be even less safe for you, Theon. Your uncles set Lannisport afire, I heard the red-cloaks talking about it at the feast.”

“I must agree with Arya and Sansa,” Maester Luwin chipped in. “Your father’s rebellion made no friends and many enemies for the Iron Islands, and especially House Greyjoy.”

“A lady’s armour is her courtesies,” Sansa says. “Arya, you’ll really have to work with Septa on the sail down. If we can present a united front, maybe we’ll be alright – or at least, we won’t make as much trouble for Father.”

There is a mulish twist to Arya’s mouth that they all recognise.

“Joffrey’s already seen me playing at swords, he won’t believe it.”

“Then I just won’t let him near you,” Sansa snaps, grabbing Arya’s hand tightly. “You are my little sister. You’re strange and annoying and we are as different as night and day, but you are my sister, and I won’t let any harm come to you. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New!”

The look Arya gives her is just as fierce. “And I swear the same. Jory can keep training me in secret, and when we get to Kings Landing, we can find someone else as well. We’re wolves too, we’re a _pack_ , which means that we protect each other.”

* * *

“Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Rickon,” Tyrion says, amused. The boy is near the spitting image of his eldest brother, with the same red curls and bright Tully eyes. His great black pup slinks at his heels, eyeing Tyrion hungrily. Any time the wolf moves as though to take a snap at Tyrion – and it is _only_ ever him, he’s been paying attention! – the youngest Stark puts out a hand before the motion has even fully begun. Curious.

Tyrion had made sure that he was the last one shown to his rooms, so that he might try and speak with the little lord and find out what, exactly, is going on in Winterfell.

The boy bows at Tyrion with a big, gap-toothed smile and smug satisfaction. The Septa behind him looks to be tossing between amusement and despair. Having seen the other Stark children, Tyrion isn’t surprised. One out of six successfully courteous children was a terrible figure for a septa.

“You’re welcome,” The little lord pipes. “Sorry about Shaggy; he’s trying to protect Bran.”

Raising his eyebrows, Tyrion asks, “Apologies, my lord, I don’t understand. I have brought designs to help your brother ride again.”

Rickon sinks his hand into his direwolf’s ruff, blue eyes sharpening into something cold. “Summer told Shaggy, and Shaggy told me, when I was sleeping. Your littermates threw my brother from the tower. They sent an assassin who tried to kill Bran, but hurt Mother instead. They tried to hurt Sansa, ordered Nymeria’s death, and killed Lady in her place. That’s why the wolves don’t like you. Good night, Lord Tyrion.” With that the boy departs again, leaving the shocked Septa behind with Tyrion.

“He – he doesn’t mean it, my lord,” The old woman finally tries. “The boy is young yet, with such an imagination!”

“Yes, I remember being that young myself,” He answers slowly. “Goodnight, Septa.”

Even with as great an imagination as a child of six might possess, Tyrion doubted that the boy had made that up himself. Which meant that the accusations had to come from _somewhere_. Lady Stark wasn’t here, of that, Tyrion was sure. So where she could have gone, and why? What lead Robb Stark – who had previously at least been _courteous_ to Tyrion – been an ill-made remark away from running Tyrion through? What had happened on the road, that had led his _sweet sister_ (for who else could have given such an order?) to demand the head of a Stark Direwolf?

Curious, indeed!

* * *

* * *


End file.
